


hands to myself

by somehowunbroken



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 14:09:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9075286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/pseuds/somehowunbroken
Summary: hi, melk24! there's no way i'm ever going to be able to resist writing witchboy marner, so i pretty much had to write you a treatfic.
my thanks to S. and A. for reading this through for me!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [melk24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melk24/gifts).



> hi, melk24! there's no way i'm ever going to be able to resist writing witchboy marner, so i pretty much had to write you a treatfic.
> 
> my thanks to S. and A. for reading this through for me!

There has always been magic in Mitch's fingertips.

It's not showy; it isn't like he runs around with sparks flashing in his hands, and he doesn't glow when he gets mad or anything. They didn't even notice it until he was six, when he and Chris were wrestling around in the front yard and Mitch, much smaller than Chris, yelled "Eat dirt!" and pushed at his face, then yelled louder when Chris started licking at the ground.

Skin-to-skin contact, the specialist had said. If Mitch concentrates hard enough on something when he's touching someone else, things… happen.

It's subtle, which suits him just fine, honestly. He'd rather be known for more important things, like his hockey, but it's not like he doesn't use it now and again anyway.

"Hey, hey," Mitch says, skating up to Dylan and stopping short. They're both trying to pretend that they want to be at this World Juniors camp; hopefully, Mitch will make the Leafs and Dylan will make the Coyotes, and neither of their teams will want to let them play in December. Mitch is hoping it's not as much of a long shot as he thinks it is; Dylan's pretty much a lock for the Coyotes with how solid he is at centre, but there's a lot of competition to make the Leafs' roster. Mitch is going to make it on his own, though. His magic has its uses, but he's not ever gonna use it to influence his career.

"Hey yourself," Dylan returns, grinning at him. "How's things? Changed much since I saw you like two days ago?"

Mitch shoves him a little. Force being what it is, he's the one who moves, and Dylan just laughs at him. Mitch grins; this is why Dylan is his favorite.

"Hey, drills," Dylan says, nodding at where Coach is about to blow his whistle. Mitch has always wondered if Dylan's got a little bit of precognition in him; he'd ask, but it's not like he's been super forthcoming about his own little piece of magic. If Dylan wants to keep it to himself, well, that's up to him.

"Bet I can do them better," Mitch says, skating towards Coach.

"Bet you can't," Dylan counters, and they're both laughing as they take their places in line.

Drills are fine; there's nothing inherently exciting about pass, shoot, skate, repeat, not when there's not someone trying to keep you from doing it. It's easy to settle into it, the rhythm of hockey all around him, and Mitch thinks that's why he doesn't notice anything happened until he hears Dylan exclaim, very loudly, that he's fine.

"So much for precog," Mitch mutters as the crowd parts for him. Dylan's glove is on the ice and his hand is pressed to his mouth, which is very obviously not fine; there's blood smeared on his face, and it's coming through his fingers, too. It's probably not too bad, Mitch decides as Coach blows his whistle and tells Dylan to go get fixed up. There's not enough blood for it to be bad.

"What are you doing?" Dylan mumbles around his fingers, glancing at Mitch as Mitch follows him to the bench. "Go run drills."

"I will," Mitch says. His fingers are itching, and he pushes absently at his thighs as Dylan sits down and the trainer starts blotting at his face. "I just want to see first."

"Why?" Dylan asks. He hisses as the trainer dabs at the cut. It's his lip; not a super neat cut, Mitch can see, but nothing that's going to scar, probably. "You're kind of weird, you know that?"

Mitch grins and waggles his eyebrows as the trainer gets a suture kit. "It's part of my charm."

"You're not charming," Dylan grumbles.

"Strome," the trainer says, probably more patiently than they deserve. "Stop talking, or it'll keep bleeding and I won't be able to put the stitches in. Marner, if you can't stop antagonizing him, I'm throwing you back to the drills."

"I'll be quiet," Mitch says obediently, and Dylan snorts, but he doesn't say anything else.

It's interesting how medicine works; Mitch is always sort of fascinated by it, the way humans have coped with fixing various ailments that Mitch is capable of pretty much wishing away. He's not exactly taking notes, but he notices the way the trainer tilts Dylan's face, the precise way the needle moves, the exact number of stitches he puts in. It's over in a few minutes, and the trainer gives Dylan a water bottle and has him rinse his mouth a few times.

"Disinfect it every four hours," the trainer says. "Find me when practice is over and I'll run through it with you."

"Thanks," Dylan says. He turns and looks up at Mitch, raising an eyebrow. "Everything done to your standards, Dr. Marner?"

Mitch laughs and steps back. "Couldn't have done it better myself," he says, hopping over the boards and skating out to join the drill.

Not the stitches, anyway.

-0-

"Stromer," Mitch calls when they're heading back to the hotel. Dylan's face is swelling a little, and he honestly looks like a mess. Mitch smiles at him anyway. "What are you doing tonight?"

"Figured I'd go out and impress the locals," Dylan says dryly. He's slurring a little, probably due to the swelling. "I'm staying in. Eating soft things. Why, gonna keep me company?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Mitch says. "Your place or mine? Oh, wait, we share a room!"

Dylan snorts. "You're not cute."

"Sure I am," Mitch says, batting his eyelashes. "Not my fault you haven't noticed yet."

"You're the worst," Dylan says, rolling his eyes. He sounds amused, though. "C'mon, Brooklyn 9-9 is on Netflix, and it's hilarious."

"Should you be laughing?" Mitch asks as he calls the elevator. "Maybe we should watch, like, a documentary. About mountains."

"Mountains," Dylan repeats as they get into the elevator. "Where do you come up with this shit?"

"They're super tall," Mitch says, warming up to his topic. "And they have, like, avalanches. And…"

Dylan snickers as Mitch trails off. "Maybe we _should_ watch a documentary. Clearly you have no idea."

"We'll both have an idea in an hour or so," Mitch says as the elevator doors open. "I'm gonna find every mountain documentary on Netflix. We're gonna know so much mountain shit."

"Oh, goody," Dylan replies, opening the door to their room. "I'm so excited. Can you tell how excited I am?"

Mitch dumps his bag on the ground and makes sure the door is shut. He's almost bouncing with energy, fingers buzzing hard. He locks the door, then turns around.

Dylan's peeling out of his practice clothes; he's always been the kind of guy who wears as little as he can get away with, which can be endlessly frustrating and entertaining at the same time. Now, though, he's wincing after he pulls his shirt over his head. He touches his stitches gingerly, then shrugs at Mitch. "Forgot," he says.

"How could you forget?" Mitch wonders, walking over and peering at Dylan's mouth. He already knew what he was going to do when they got back here; his magic is almost leaping from his fingers with the need to fix what's wrong. Now that he's standing so close, though, now that he's standing almost chest-to-chest with Dylan…

"Marns?" Dylan says softly.

"I can," Mitch says. He glances up to meet Dylan's eyes. "I can fix it."

"Fix," Dylan echoes, trailing off. His eyes go a little wide. "You're a witch? A healing witch?"

Mitch shrugs. "Sort of. I can…" He looks back down at Dylan's mouth, then back up. "If you want."

"How?" Dylan asks. He hasn't moved away, hasn't pushed Mitch back.

"Just," Mitch says. He could reach out and touch Dylan, wrap his fingers around Dylan's wrist and think _heal_ , but instead he tilts his head back and pushes up on his toes, brushing his lips against Dylan's.

_Heal,_ he thinks as hard as he can.

Dylan gasps a little, pulling back. He reaches up and touches his lip. The stitches are still there, but the wound that they'd been holding together is completely healed. Dylan looks down at him, slightly awed for a second, before his face breaks into a broad grin. "Did you just kiss my boo-boo better?"

Mitch takes a step back, color rising to his cheeks. He doesn't know why he'd done it like that, not really, except—

"No, hey," Dylan says, still grinning. "Come back here." He reaches out and catches Mitch's wrist, tugging him back in.

"Is it okay?" Mitch asks.

Dylan's grin softens. "I think you missed a spot," he says.

Mitch frowns. "It doesn't work like that. Either it's healed, or—"

"Mitch," Dylan cuts in, still smiling down at him. "Shut up."

He leans back in and kisses Mitch again, slow and sweet, and oh, _oh_.

When they break apart a moment later, Dylan touches his forehead to Mitch's. "What do you think, Doc? Am I healed?"

"We'd better make sure," Mitch says, pulling Dylan back down.

**Author's Note:**

> -did i name this after a selena gomez song? of course i did.
> 
> -this is not the general style of witchboy marner that i usually write, but i hope it was enjoyable anyway!
> 
> -this takes place during the summer 2016 WJC camp, where dylan did indeed get high sticked in the face and need stitches, and mitch very much hovered over his shoulder like a worried mama the whole time. it writes itself.


End file.
